PenWomanShip

Sometimes
There’s a slight
Stampede
Of PANIC
At my door:

Spider webs,
Like iron gates,
Spread across
The so-called exit-
And remand
Me to the floor.

There's a chatter
Of the invisible kind
Beating at
The windows-
Billowing
Down the hall.

A chatter
That will soon define
The neon ghosts-
And the limits
Of the fragile mind.